


Silk

by Kuraagins



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraagins/pseuds/Kuraagins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harrold gifts Alayne a dress to wear to his name day feast. Although a gift it is not, and a payment he expects. </p><p>Written for PxS week day 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk

The dress was lovely, there was no doubt about it, so then why did she feel so awful in it? It had been a gift from Harry, a lovely silken dress that was much too nice for a bastard. 

"A beautiful dress for a beautiful girl," he had told her, "much nicer than those plain old things that your father dresses you in. Wear it to my name day feast won't you?" 

And Alayne had gushed and babbled out many thanks, telling him that of course she would wear it to his name day feast, and that she'd cherish the beautiful garment for the rest of her days. 

Of course she was lying. No matter how beautiful the dress was, it was from him. She had tried to love Harry, she really had, but it was so hard. He wasn't a very naturally likeable person, and as much as she feigned it, Alayne thought that Harry was horrible. He was an inconsiderate young glutton. She knew of Harry's illegitimate children, and all of a sudden she began to understand her mother's feelings towards Jon Snow from all those years ago. It's not that Harry was a particularly cruel man, he was just incredibly selfish and never took any notice of the feelings of those around him. 

That's why Harry was enjoying his name day feast so much, Alayne supposed. Being Harry the heir meant a great name day feast with over a hundred guests, all focusing their attention on the gallant young lad. 

At least, most of the guests were. Alayne was sat alone in her pretty silk dress, tucked away in the corner of the huge hall, watching the festivities around her. There had been seventeen courses, one for each year the great young lord had lived, but Alayne had barely nibbled at any of them. There had been wine aplenty available, that most guests had been downing as easily as one might down a chalice of water, but Alayne had avoided that too. Wine made one loose their wit, her father said. And aside from beauty, wits was all this bastard girl was allowed to have. 

Many knights and lords and squires alike had begged a dance off her that evening, and she complied. Alayne used to love dancing, but that was before. When she was Sansa Stark and not Alayne Stone, and when most men would not dance with her only to get their hands on her, to get a better look down her dress or to try and convince her to leave with them and fool around in her chambers or some other secluded place. 

Perhaps if she was still Sansa Stark she would be treated with a little more respect, being the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. But she was no longer a Stark. She was a Stone, and her father was a Baelish, a man grown from nothing. And her mother was a nameless, faceless whore. Alayne commanded no respect. 

"What a lovely dress," some of the men complimented, but Alayne could see their eyes focused not on the actual dress, but on the low cut of the silk. The soft material barely covering her delicate breasts that were on display for every man in the hall to see. She wondered if Harry had done that on purpose. 

After the seventh man she danced with grabbed her behind very roughly and inappropriately, she had hidden herself away at the back of the room where no one could see her. She didn't want to dance with any more men that only wanted to tear the lovely silk dress off her body. 

"At least one more dance, my lovely lady?" The young knight had begged when Alayne had pulled her wrist away from his strong grip. 

"Apologies good Ser, I'm awfully fatigued after all this dancing, I'm afraid I need a small rest. Perhaps later on in the evening?" She had suggested, and before waiting for an answer she had gathered her skirts so that she would not trip and all but ran to the back of the hall. 

'I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry!' She chanted in her head as she sat down alone, her eyes stinging from the feeling of being awfully used and objectified. 'No matter what they say you are a direwolf, heir to Winterfell and you must be brave. Robb would not cry over such silly matters, nor your Lord father,' and so she blinked her stinging eyes furiously, determined not to let the tears fall. Myranda said she looked awfully ugly when she cried. 

After forcing the tears away, Alayne had taken quite a heavy sip of wine. Harry had not yet asked her to dance, or even so much as glanced in her direction. He was off dancing and flirting with many other young ladies though, and if Alayne was lucky he would steal one of them away to his bedchamber that night and make to father another bastard. 

Alayne looked around the hall for her father. Lord Baelish was normally ever so protective over his bastard daughter. She spent long hours everyday in his solar for her lessons, and at events like these they normally never left each others side. But tonight Lord Baelish had left her alone the moment they had stepped into the hall, claiming that he was going to use this opportunity to get them both in the good graces of many influential houses. 

Currently he was dancing with Barbrey Dustin, Alayne spotted. Twirling her around, laughing lightly, kissing her hand... Alayne felt an awful sensation bubbling up in her stomach. As she watched closely she noticed him run a hand over the collar of her gown as her murmured something to her. She wondered if he was complimenting her dress, that seemed the only option. Unless he was whispering something lewd to her, but Petyr would never... Would he? 

'He never said a word about my dress, and it's silk. Much nicer and ladylike than that garb she's donning. What is that, cotton?' Alayne thought bitterly, but immediately bit her lip and regret her thoughts. Jealousy was an ugly, ugly thing that made even the most beautiful of ladies undesirable. She should be happy for her father, for he looked happy. But then another ugly though came into Alayne's head: 'his mouth may be smiling, but I hope his eyes aren't.' 

Alayne sighed and took another deep drink from her goblet. Unable to tear her eyes away from the pair. 'Perhaps he'd be happier with a woman like Lady Dustin, he seems to be enjoying her far more than he's enjoying me this evening.' Alayne scrunched up her face in frustration as she tried to reassure herself. 'Come now Alayne, you know your father must care for you more than her. He would never kiss or touch you like he does in his solar, or speak softly to you as Petyr not Littlefinger, or whisper your name-your true name!-on those rare evenings you spend together in his chamber when he's asleep if he didn't love you.' 

"That's an amusing face you pull," 

A thick laugh pulled her from her thoughts as she noticed that her view of her father and his partner was being obstructed by none other than Harry the Heir himself. 

"Apologies my Lord, I was deep in thought," 

Harrold scoffed, "no one should be thinking at a party as grand as this! Come, it's my name day, you should be dancing and enjoying yourself!" 

"Of course, my Lord," Alayne said, standing, "might I be so bold as to ask you to accompany me on the dance floor?" 

"You are bold to ask me of things, especially on mine own name day," Harry's voice was thick and he was laughing far to much after everything he said. He was clearly drunk, and the boy was even more unpleasant and unpredictable in this state. "I had something else in mind for us actually. Come, walk with me Alayne," 

And she had no choice but to silently take Harry's arms as he lead her a little too roughly out of the hall. She glanced back too throw a helpless look at her father but he still paid no mind to her, focusing his attentions to Barbrey, whispering something in her ear and Alayne had to turn away because she could not bare to see her father so close to another woman. Perhaps she would let Harry kiss her and touch her a little more boldly that night, just to spite him. 

Harry lead her through the simple but pleasant gardens, telling some bawdy tale from the evening or something as Alayne listened an nodded silently. The nighttime air in the north was cold, and Alayne could feel the chill on her exposed skin. The thin silk may be pretty to look at, but did nothing to protect her from the cold that she had grown unaccustomed to from her time in Kings Landing. When he had finished his story Alayne chuckled politely. 

"Might I wish you a happy name day by the way Harry? I don't believe I have had time to tell you today, what with all of your other admirers constantly surrounding you." 

"Why, of course you may Alayne. I'm sure your good wishes will make me much happier than all of those other boring lords and ladies." 

Alayne laughed nervously, unsure of his meaning, before standing on her toes to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

"Is that all?" Harry joked, and shoved her up against a large tree nearby and pressed his mouth roughly against her own. He pressed himself up close to her, so that she could feel him already half hard in his breeches, and his hand wormed up her body, squeezing her small breasts rather painfully, and Alayne found herself praying to the Mother for forgiveness as she allowed Harry to thrust his hips into her silk-clad nether regions. 

'Let him do whatever he wants, it's his name day,' she though as she squirmed uncomfortably under his touch. Harry took it however as a shudder of pleasure, which fuelled his efforts, much to Alayne's dismay. She scrunched her eyes closed as tight as she could (which she hoped he also took for pleasure) as Harry shoved his tongue down her throat. 

'Pretend it's Petyr, pretend it's Petyr, pretend it's Petyr,' she repeated as a mantra over and over in her head to help her cope. But it was hard. Her father was gentle where Harry was rough, had soft lips in place of chapped, and liked to wear silk robes instead of velvet like Harry. Most of all, her father did not kiss like Harry did. 

Harry kissed her for what felt like an eternity, but when the young heir broke away to gasp for air, Alayne took the opportunity to speak. Anything to keep the boy from kissing her again. 

"I hope you enjoyed the new doublet father and I gifted you. Father may have payed for it, but I picked out the material and colour for you." 

"It was thoughtful of you," Harry shrugged, "but I'm sure I can get a much better gift from the pretty girl in the pretty silk dress. You look very desirable in it, might I say." 

Alayne flushed red. No, no, no she would not give Harry her cunt. Not here, not now, no matter what day it was. Her father was insistent on keeping her maidenhead intact until she was married to the young boy, and although Alayne desperately wanted her father to be the one to take it (and she was sure he wanted the same) she must obey her orders. 

"You are kind to say but-" he started to lift up the dress, causing Alayne to squeak nervously. 

"Excited already?" The idiot heir laughed, grabbing roughly at her behind with his other hand, "you know I do think I'd much prefer to rip these skirts off you, Alayne." 

"Harry we shouldn't, we mustn't! Surely you jest, we aren't even in your chambers or anything, someone could see us," she whispered frantically. 

"Oh come now, I'm Harrold Hardyng who's going to oppose me? Besides, I'm much more highborn than you, little Lady Stone, you must do as I command. And what I command is your maidenhead right now. You wouldn't want to displease me would you? And I want an adequate payment for that lovely silk dress I bought you, your cunt will do nicely." The wretched boy had the audacity to grin at her through his wine smelling mouth as he reached underneath her skirts to grab her mound. 

"Harry please-!" She cried out as she wriggled to get away from him, flying to the other side of the path they'd been walking once she'd pulled his hand away from her. 

They both paused. Both breathing deeply. Alayne out of fear, and Harry out of a terrifying mix of lust and anger. 

"I can't Harry, please you must understand." She pleaded quietly. 

But her soft words were to no avail, as Harry's playful expression twisted into one of anger. He stormed towards Alayne, pushing her roughly to the ground, and straddling her as she kicked her legs and whimpered in a feeble attempt to get him off. 

"How dare you refuse me, bastard!" He hissed, "I'm doing you a kindness, you know? You've a lovely face Alayne but no other Lord would ever marry scum like you, understand? So why don't you just do as you're told, and perhaps you'll find that you enjoy it," 

Alayne tried once again to push him off, but this was a small bastard girl against a highborn boy of seven and ten, so she ended up getting hit across the face with one hand, and restrained with the other. The blow stung her pale skin as the tears she so hated began to roll down her face. 

"Oh don't play the victim Lady Stone," Harry half teased, half spat, "you owe me," 

"You... You said it was a gift," she whispered feebly, as if her words would do her any good now. 

Harry laughed cruelly, "bastard girls don't just get gifts Alayne! Surely you aren't stupid enough to believe that. I'm being kind really, only asking for your cunt. Other men might demand to share you with their whole army for a dress like that, so stop-" kick "being-" slap "so difficult!" Kiss. 

Alayne tried to wriggle away again but it was no use, Harry was holding her too tight. Harry bit down hard on her lip, so hard that he drew blood, and Alayne's tears began to flow faster, her vision becoming blurred and misty. Harry sat up and tried to pull off her dress, but his impatient nature and drunk state caused him to rip the beautiful silk as he yanked it down, ruining Alayne's pretty dress.

Harry sat up and scowled at her. "Now look at what you've done, stupid girl." 

The heir stood, and gave the lying girl a light kick to the side, not too hard, but noticeable. "I'm not in the mood for you anymore. Perhaps I should have given that dress to Mya Stone. She's a bastard that knows how to give a Lord proper thanks," 

Alayne lay still as she watched Harry leave, his perfectly polished boots storming out of the gardens and back to the hall where his name day feast continued on. He was near as bad as Joffrey when he was drunk like that, Alayne reflected. 

Once Harry was completely out of her sight she propped herself up and shuffled backwards to lean against a nearby tree. Alayne brought her knees up to her chest and buried her head between them, beginning to sob loudly. She clutched the torn silk close to her chest to avoid being too exposed, shivering from the cold night air. 

How long she sat there crying she could not say, a few minutes, an hour, two? She only lifted her head when she heard footsteps that grew louder and louder, eventually louder than her sobs. 

Her eyes widened as she saw her father walking towards. Alayne wiped her eyes on the sleeve that wasn't torn, hoping that her father wouldn't notice that she'd been crying. 

"Harrold just walked in the hall looking rather angry. I hope you haven't displeased him Alayne," Lord Baelish told her sternly as he approached. But as he noticed her ripped dress and puffy eyes his hardened facial expression softened with concern. The man who feigned being her father bent down and offered the young girl his hand. Alayne took it with gratitude and stumbled to her feet, still clutching the torn dress to her chest with her other hand. 

"Here," Petyr removed his cloak that he had donned to keep the nighttime chill off him and wrapped it around his daughters shoulders. "Come now daughter, let's get you to bed." 

Petyr wrapped an arm protectively around Alayne as he guided her silently, first out of the gardens, past the grand hall and the through the stony halls, to climb up the steps leading to Alayne's room. Neither of them spoke any words, perhaps for fear of being overheard, perhaps to give Alayne some time to calm down after the events that had just occurred. Alayne wondered if Harry would take his anger out on some other poor girl, or if he'd just have another glass of wine and forget about the matter. Probably the latter. It was at times like this when she remembered why she loved her father much more than she could ever love any boy close to her own age. Boys lost control so easily when consumed by anger or lust, and when wine or ale was mixed into the equation, their victims stood almost no chance. First Joffrey, now Harry... Most other boys she had know throughout her life were the same, take Theon Greyjoy for instance. But Petyr was always in control of his emotions and Petyr would never hurt her, she knew. 

When they arrived at Alayne's room, Lord Baelish entered with her, unlike most nights when he left her at the door, sometimes with less than a chaste kiss to her cheek. He was silent still as he undressed her; sliding off his cloak, followed by her dress; her shift, her party slippers along with her stockings. He took his time unlacing her corset, making sure to kiss every inch of the skin that became increasingly exposed to him. Alayne's breath hitched and her eyes fluttered shut every time his lips brushed against her back, the sensation as soft as the silk she had been previously wearing. Once she was only in her smallclothes, Petyr moved to her front and dropped to his knees, planting a kiss upon her clothed mound before dragging the material down. Neither of them bothered to pick up the clothes that now littered the floor messily, an unbecoming sight for a lady's room. Petyr stood and guided his daughter towards her bed and tucked her in, pulling the cotton sheets to rest just below her chin. 

He took a seat on the edge of the bed next to Alayne's waist and began to stroke her hair softly, gazing into her blue eyes. They sat there, the silence continuing for so long Alayne thought she might scream. She wondered if this meant he might stay the night, as he so rarely did anymore. 

"It's a shame, you looked lovely in that dress," he murmured eventually. 

"Thank you," she whispered back, "although you didn't say anything earlier." She couldn't help uttering the stupid words, her jealously still awfully strong and apparent. 

"I was trying not to focus on you, my sweet girl. Do you really think I would have been able to charm all of those high born ladies if I was paying attention to my beautiful bastard daughter?" 

Alayne blushed at the praise and nestled into her pillows. She felt awful about her jealousy now. He did love her much more than silly old Lady Dustin. Although the feeling still lingered for some reason. Deep down she was aware of the possibility that Petyr was manipulating her. Charming her like he did with poor Lady Dustin to get what he wanted. And Alayne knew it was working. She knew that he wanted the North, and as much as she didn't want to believe it, that was the truth. But the way that Petyr looked at her, especially in that moment, with such concern and care in those normally cold and empty green-grey eyes... It couldn't be fake. He must have at least some care for her. And that thought reassured her. 

"Did Harrold hurt you sweetling?" Petyr asked gently. 

"No... I mean he hit me a few times but he didn't... He didn't take my maidenhood, like he wanted." 

Her father scowled and stared at the red mark on her face where Harry had hit her. There would surely be a bruise there in the morning. "He hurt you over that?" 

Alayne hesitantly nodded, fidgeting in her sheets, not wanting to get Harry into trouble because, of course, he was crucial for their plan. Surely, her father would not do anything rash, but as Alayne had learned, the Lannisters were not the only family who could pay their debts. 

"I'll kill him for this. Do you hear?" Petyr muttered darkly. 

"Father-" 

"Not now, but the moment we don't need him, I'll kill him for doing this." 

"You shouldn't-" 

"Don't fight me on this Sansa!" The man shouted a little too loudly. 

The pair both looked at each other in shock, less at the volume of the normally reserved man's voice, but more at the use of her name. The name she hadn't been called in so long, the name he didn't even use when he corrupted her during her late night visits to his solar. The name of the girl that he could love. 

"I... I want to protect you," he told her, quieter than his previous sentence. "And since I failed to do that tonight, I will take whatever means necessary to stop it from happening again," 

He looked upset, he truly did, and she believed every word he said. Not even Littlefinger could feign such raw emotion; he must love her- he must! She could have cried at the thought if he was not there with her. 

"But... He'll be the Lord of the Vale one day," she mumbled feebly, "who's going to stop him from taking what he wants?" 

"You are the heir to Winterfell, once it's safe to reveal you as Sansa Stark then you, my love, will stop him. But while you remain my bastard then he'll have the Lord of Harrenhall and previous master of coin on the king's council to see to if he would dare lay a finger on my daughter again." 

Petyr's hand had moved so that he could stoke her cheek with his thumb, and as he shuffled a little in his place, Sansa wondered-hoped, even-that Petyr would crawl under the covers with her. 

But of course, he didn't. He stayed sat at the edge of the bed, stroking, longing for the girl beneath him. 

"Your skin is as soft as that silk dress you know," he murmured, and then even quieter so that she almost didn't hear, "beautiful... So beautiful..." 

"Will you stay tonight?" She dared to ask, leaning her face into his hand as she closed her eyes and felt a single tear roll down her exhausted face. Exhausted from tonight's events. Exhausted from having to please Harry. Exhausted from the endless games that her father played with her. Exhausted from being someone that she was not. 

"I cannot, you know that I cannot. You know the risks," he sighed, not annoyed at her but at the hazard of the exposure of their façade that must draw him away. 

"Just until I fall asleep then? Please, Petyr I need you," she all but whimpered, and when she cracked open an eye to look up at him she knew that she had won him. 

He didn't join her under the covers like she wanted, yet stayed sat on the edge of the bed. The soft touch of his hand lulled her into a drowsy state of mind. His hand never left her no matter what, and even in her half conscious state she could feel the warmth and care behind the touches. He must have thought that she fell asleep a lot quicker than she actually had, because she heard him whisper ever so quietly, "Good night, Sansa," before leaning down to press his lips against her forehead for a long time. When his lips left her forehead, he got up from the bed and Sansa was sure that he had gone. Moments later though, she felt the side of the bed dip and his touch return. He hadn't left her. 

In the morning, Harrold would look forlorn and beg her forgiveness. Tell her it would never happen again, and buy her more gifts and treat her like a queen to make up for his disgusting actions. And Alayne would smile and tell him it was nothing, and that of course she would forgive him and love him. 

But that didn't matter. He didn't matter. All that mattered right now was Petyr. Because she was not Alayne, she was Sansa Stark. And Sansa Stark loved Petyr Baelish with all of her heart, however foolish that was. Harrold Hardyng would pay for what he did, but it wasn't worth thinking about now. With the man she loved so near, Sansa knew that no amount of silk dresses could make her happier than this.


End file.
